


Five Times Joe Said "Habibi" and One Time He Didn't

by Kat2107



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Albrecht Dürer, Also: Is Couscous Pasta?, Casual Racism, Kittens, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Nicky is a dumbass, TW: being buried alive, TW: injured animals, don't go down that rabbit hole, don't try to cheat Yusuf al-Kaysani, he's trying, mentions of grief, there are many many ways to tie a turban, tw: the feeling of living in a dictatorship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26285122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat2107/pseuds/Kat2107
Summary: Five times through the centuries Yusuf al-Kaysani said habibi to someone.One time he didn't.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Comments: 32
Kudos: 359





	Five Times Joe Said "Habibi" and One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElephantOfAfrica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElephantOfAfrica/gifts).



> My heartfelt thanks go to ElephantOfAfrica, who sparked this idea with a comment to their wonderful background meta [background meta ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598143/chapters/62128573) for Joe. She also beta and sensitivity read and without her and her absolutely invaluable translation help and input, this wouldn't have happened
> 
> To [lgbtmazight](https://lgbtmazight.tumblr.com/) who endured some rather nerdy questions with good humor and invaluable information.  
> And to [Wind_Ryder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder) for their patient listening to me screaming (and also beating).

**1 - Havana, 1958**

Rain lashes the streets of Havana. The heavy darkness of the storm clouds washes out the colorful facades, making it impossible to tell one street from the other. Nico and Joe already turned wrong once on the way to their modest apartment and now have to circle back through the city’s back alleys. 

Luckily, this isn’t set to grow into a full-blown hurricane, it’s nothing but a strong September storm that will have passed with the morning. And it provides them with the perfect cover, returning from their delivery run. The team has split. Andy is in the Mountains and Booker has set up shop in a dingy hotel room. He is posing as a drunkard French reporter, desperate to capture a story to justify his excessive alcohol consumption. Nobody knows and hopefully, nobody will know that, instead of stories, he’s writing passes and documents that Joe and Nico then ferry to the revolutionaries. 

Revolutions are a messy business. Having them all apart makes sure there is always someone on the outside in case Batista’s forces catch them. It also gives Joe and Nico some privacy.  
It’s that privacy that they’re looking forward to when they turn into a narrow passage that should bring them back onto their original path. 

It runs between two houses and is just wide enough to house a bunch of trashcans and windows that open to nothing but the view of another wall. In here, the incessant splatter of the thick rain gives way to muted silence. That’s the only reason Joe hears it. 

Nico is carefully stepping over the remains of a wooden crate and his boots crunch through the wood almost loud enough to drown out the soft pathetic mewling somewhere up ahead. 

“Nico, wait!” Joe hisses and pushes forward, squeezing around his partner where he stands frozen in the face of an unknown danger. 

“What is it?” he asks. Joe raises his hands and begets him to silence. 

There it is again, a soft, barely audible scream that eerily reminds Joe of a baby. 

Nico’s eyes widen. Joe lifts a few pieces of wood from the house wall and his heart clenches. 

A pair of swollen eyes stare at him from a tiny black face with a tiny, dirt-encrusted white nose. Its fur is soaked to the skin, huge ears twitching. It’s left back leg stretches awkwardly to the side.

“Oh, habibi…” 

Joe carefully crouches down to not startle it and gathers the pathetic creature into his hands. 

“We’ll take care of you.”

First, the kitten squeaks at him, then it tries to hiss, but the moment it feels the warmth of his chest, it acquiesces with a soft shudder. 

Nico has crowded closer, standing over the two of them to shield them from the rain. He looks like he wants to say something, like a reminder to be responsible. But as Joe stands, he nonetheless curls his hand over the kitten’s shivering body like a blessing and helps Joe tuck the little creature into the warmth of his shirt. 

***

The kitten looks about five to six week old under all the grime. Joe is carefully bathing it in the kitchen sink and Nico goes to confer with their downstairs neighbor. She is a few years shy of one hundred and knows a lot of things that an immortal simply never bothers to learn. He squirms under her unreadable gaze as she hands him minced chicken and dry cat food that they dissolve into slurry with water and an egg yolk. 

“I’m not taking it,” she says without preamble and closes the door in his face. “Feed it six times a day!” she yells as he’s already leaving.

“What did she say?” Joe asks softly when Nico returns.

He has reclined on the sofa, each of his breaths carefully measured as if he might wake the tousled but now clean bundle snuggled under his chin. Sheets of rain batter the windows. 

“She won’t take it. But I got food.” Nico raises the bowl in his hand. “I’m sure we’ll find someone else to take it.”

“Him.” Joe smiles softly and raises a finger to scratch the little creature’s head. “Isn’t that right, habibi? You’re a little boy.” 

Nico stops dead in his tracks as the kitten pushes its head into Joe’s finger and then his beard, rubbing back and forth with a soft meow.

Their eyes meet and Nico sighs. Let them say he’s the gentle one, the soft-hearted one, but nobody can hold a candle to Joe when there are helpless creatures to protect. 

“We’re in the middle of a revolution, Joe.”

“In the last throes of one. And we can’t just toss him back onto the streets.” 

Nico runs a hand through his hair and goes to get a shallow plate for the cat food. 

The little one takes to the slurry like a duck to water. All in, belly first. They watch it from opposing sides. Laughter tugging at Joe’s lips and dancing in his eyes. 

Nico can feel the weight of sweet defeat settle in his bones at that look alone. He smiles. 

“You know, we _do_ have a mouse problem at the Malta house.” 

**2- Nuremberg, 1513**

There are two ways to get good quality pigments in Nuremberg. One is the Farbers, a small family of artists who have a side business trading and mixing colors, the other is Zweiter, the apothecary. 

Given a choice, Yusuf carries his business to the Farber family. They know their craft and their supply is of excellent quality. They also have delightful twin children that Yusuf teaches to paint to help himself learn that awful Frankish dialect. Their business should be bigger but lack of money and powerful competition are keeping them down. 

Today, not purchasing for himself, he is facing their competition.

He sighs “The price is set. It has been negotiated.” 

“Well, circumstances changed,” Zweiter snarls. 

Behind him, Yusuf can feel Nicolas tense, ready to strike out for the sheer audacity of this man. 

Yusuf takes in Zweiter’s smug smile, the superiority in the slant of the man’s eyes, and straightens. Of course, circumstances changed. Because it’s Yusuf standing here. Normally, the master would send one of the apprentices, but Yusuf had been in the mood for a stroll, get Nico out of the study and actually take a look at the town that Yusuf had seen way too little of in the four months they’ve been here. So, he’d offered. And now they’re here. With Nico radiating rage like the sun over the plains of the Maghreb at his back and Yusuf... 

Yusuf smooths his voice into the amiable drawl he learned at his father’s hip, negotiating with traders who had traveled farther for one business interaction than Zweiter would travel in his whole life.

“Two Talers, you said?” Yusuf asks. 

The apothecary narrows his eyes. “Yes. Two.”

“We do not have that kind of money on us. We will have to return tomorrow.” Yusuf gently bows his head and hides his smile behind his beard. 

“I’m not reserving anything for you. If you want it, be quick,” the apothecary spits the words in their direction, managing the astonishing feat of making his Frankish sound even worse. Not that Yusuf cares. 

“Tomorrow then.” He turns, subtly shooing Nicolas out the door ahead of him. 

“Two Taler and not a Groschen less!” Zweiter yells after them. 

Yusuf bites his tongue. “Aber sicher, habibi, inshallah!” He tosses over his shoulder, loud enough for the neighbors to hear and hard-pressed not to grin.

He pushes Nicolas around the corner, away from the busy town square, and into one of the quieter by-streets. 

"This damn-" Nico grits his teeth before he says something that his Christian heart will regret. "I'm sorry," he says instead. Because, of course, he does. There is no talking Nico out of a penitent mood, but distractions works.

"Why are you apologizing for other people's faults when you could congratulate me on my cunning instead?" 

Nico stills, waits, his anger on Yusuf’s behalf evaporating, to be replaced by an immediate willingness to get in on whatever his partner is planning.

Yusuf crosses his arms and rolls his shoulders with a smile. "He thought I was trying to buy pigments for myself. I didn't introduce myself on Dürer's behalf."

Nico’s eyes light up. "Dürer will be furious. Even if we go back tomorrow, he'll lose a day, even two, on the altarpiece. And the price…" 

"Ridiculous. He won't pay it." Yusuf snorts. 

He knows Albrecht Dürer well enough to know that much. They met in Venice, Dürer studying the Italian masters and Yusuf amazed with Dürer's skill at wood and copper engraving. They agreed to travel to Dürer's workshop in Nuremberg together, Yusuf expanding the German Master's skill with color and learning his etching techniques in return. Convincing Nico to leave Venice had been child’s play, even though, at this moment, he looks like he regrets his decision.

"That leaves you short of vermillion, though," he says with a deep frown marring his noble forehead. 

"Unless I go to Farbers. What they hold in stock for me will tide us over for a few days and give them a chance to procure more. Even if they have to buy out Zweiter, they’ll get a much better price. I’ll shoulder their uplift. It won't be much because they will become Dürer's new main supplier." 

"Will they?" 

Yusuf laughs softly, wrapping a hand around Nico's cheek. "Zweiter tried to rip off Albrecht Dürer. In Nuremberg. And I have five hundred years of negotiating on them. Zweiter will never again see business." He leans in until their lips almost touch and winks. "Don't doubt my genius." 

Nicolas’ face smooths with a sweet, Yusuf almost dared call it gleeful, smile. "Never."

**3 - Russia, 2020**

“NILE!” The roar of crumbling walls swallows the sound of Joe's voice, even before the shockwave knocks the wind out of him. He’s back on his feet before the dust has settled.

Where the decrepit factory hall stood now piles a mountain of rubble. 

“Joe, report,” Andy commands over com, tinny over the sounds of blood rushing in his ears.

“What do you want me to report? It exploded.” Joe grabs his gun from the floor and moves. “I gotta find Nile.”

“Joe, stop.” Nicky. It makes a small dent in the noise of Joe’s heartbeat hammering in his brain.

Joe shakes his head. Nicky will see it. “If she’s under that pile. We need to get her out. Now.” Before emergency services arrive and Joe can't get to her anymore.

“Yusuf, _wa’eff_!” 

Joe stops. Everything stops for one blazing moment and suddenly there’s the clarity of Nicky’s words in his ear, the way he has heard them a hundred thousand times before.

“Turn right, Joe. The path to the left is blocked and that wall will fall any second. Andy’s on her way. Don’t make us dig you both out. Ti amo.” 

_Ti amo._

Joe takes a deep breath and measures his new surroundings. The old engine shed shielded him from the worst of the explosion but he can see the caved roof and the way one wall is leaning dangerously to the left. The right side looks sound. He might still be able to climb over the rubble, but Nicky’s right, when - not if - that wall caves, it’ll take him down too. And today is not a good day to be crushed by buildings. 

Not him, too. 

What he finds on the other side twists his heart. He hoped to find something still standing, but there is nothing. Concrete blocks, bricks, dust. Unbidden there is the memory of earthquakes, of digging through the rubble with his bare hands. Of small broken bodies staring at him with sightless eyes because he was too late. 

“Give me a location, Nicky,” he says, squashing that thought.

“She had just rounded that corner to your left. Where the side entrance was.” 

Joe doesn’t wait for him to finish. He races around the corner and stops dead in his tracks. Nile straightens with a groan, feebly raising her hand. Blood covers her face, a wide gash just healing, blood on her teeth. Her eyes flicker, cross as she tries to focus on Joe.

Joe stumbles against what’s left of the wall to his left before he finds his way forward. He drops the gun as he goes and drags her into his arms. 

"Oh, habibti. Hamdellah. Hamdellah." 

Bones are still shifting in her body, but she leans into him. Groaning softly as she heals. But alive. Safe.

Nicky’s relieved laugh mixes with the crunch of Andy’s boots at Joe’s back and he doesn’t care. The box in his mind is still spitting out pictures that he never wants to see again and he has to fight hard, has to hold on for just a second longer, to shove a lid on it again. 

He barely makes it. He knows he’ll be dreaming tonight, but right then, as Nile clumsily pats his shoulder and grumbles into the leather of his jacket, he doesn’t care. 

“I’m fine, Joe.” 

“I know, habibti,” he says, caressing his lips against her temple, closing his eyes on a deep inhale. His fingers brush debris off her braids. “I know.”

Andy snorts behind them. “Great! Everybody’s alive. Let’s move.” 

**4 - Somewhere closer to Baghdad than Damascus, 1100**

Yusuf eyes his Frank with a soundless sigh. “Do you think you’ll manage?”

“Yeah. It’s fine.” 

It is, of course, not fine. Nicolò is swaying in the saddle, fighting for grip as his head listlessly lolls on his neck. He tries to focus, tries hard, but he barely manages to find Yusuf with his bloodshot eyes, face a deep, glowing red. Yusuf would help him down, he would catch him and carry him to the shade, if only the proud idiot let him. 

But no. Nicolò, the dumb Frank, swings his leg over the saddle and loses his balance the moment he moves. He hits the ground with the dull thud of a sack of grain. 

***

Nicolò wakes to raging headaches and the sandpaper feeling of a parched throat. He almost expects the merciless glare of the summer sun above him, but instead finds the rough roof of the small hut they stopped next to, and pleasant, wonderful shade. 

His head rests on the cool metal of his armor and a wet cloth covers his forehead and neck. Before he does anything, he smiles.

Yusuf is acerbic on the best of days, a low hum of righteous anger coloring his every word and sometimes the needle pins sting even harder than those that Nicolò turns on himself. But he’s seen Yusuf's big heart in the way his eyes soften when he laughs, felt the strong grip of his hand when he pulled Nicolò to his feet, has seen him care for the people they meet. Yusuf’s heart is so big, it needs the barbs to defend it. 

Reaching up, Nicolò pulls the cloth from his forehead and drags it over his face, letting some of the clear, cool liquid seep into his sun-hurt eyes.

"You need to stop doing that. I'm really over having to pick you up from yet another sun stroke." Yusuf’s voice cuts through the wonderful relief. Nicolò turns his head and finds his companion sitting in the corner, rid of his armor, his hair still wet and curling over his ears from one of his frequent washes. 

"It's like you don't have sun in Genoa, like you never traveled the sea and learned to cover your head," he says and rubs his face in frustration. 

Nicolò closes his eyes again and grits his teeth against the pain in his head as he struggles to sit. There is so much to say. An apology. Words detailing how much he admires Yusuf. How he lies awake and prays for forgiveness that God can’t grant him. How he watches the other man and _sees._ How he looks into his own past and there is this knot of pain that is his to unravel. His alone. Words that explain how his throat locks up, how bad he always has been with personal things. How he can’t possibly compete with Yusuf’s ease of words and levity. How he can’t explain what is in his head. Words, feelings, silent prayers for forgiveness, and clarity that doesn’t come. 

“I apologize,” he says. 

Something soft hits his face. 

“Great. Do better.” Yusuf huffs and rolls to his feet. “Water’s over there. I’ll take care of the horses.” 

Then he’s gone, and Nicolò still sits on the hard packed dirt, a rolled up piece of cloth in his lap, still looks for the words to express what only his heart seems to understand. 

His fingers smooth out the length of fabric, fold it carefully, so it will safely rest on his pile of things and not touch the earth. He’s seen Yusuf wrap his head with that or a similar, shorter veil, twisting and coiling it with swift movements and then tucking it into the folds. It’s so much better than what Nicolò has, cloth forever stained with blood. He’ll somehow manage it. Tomorrow. 

Today they must eat. Yusuf must eat. 

They have water, a few handfuls of grain and dried, seasoned mutton, along with a few vegetables. It’s enough to fashion a meal. 

***

Yusuf tugs on the reins and cards his fingers through the manes of the horses to keep them calm just a little longer. They’re ready to go. Yusuf is ready to go. What he lacks is Nicolò’s presence. It’s just after Fajr, the sun peeking over the horizon but not yet heating the pleasant morning air. He knows Nicolò did his morning prayers alongside him, so there is nothing to keep him. 

With a sigh Yusuf ties the horses again and marches back into the hut. 

He stops dead in his tracks. Between one heartbeat and the next, he commits that image to his heart. Nicolò, his reserved Frank, silent and steadfast, a man fighting like a battering ram once he draws his sword, hopelessly caught in the lengths of Yusuf’s cheich. He put it on his head like a hijab and then, somehow, must have tried to wrap it and keep it all in place. It has flopped to his shoulders, one wrap still trying to cling to the top of his ear. Nicolò’s hands have caught the lengths and keep them from dropping to the floor but that is about the extent of coordination he managed.

Yusuf aims for a casual lean against the doorframe, misses and stumbles into the room, snorting with barely suppressed laughter as he catches Nicolò’s face in his hands, shaking his head, as much at a loss for words as the Frank seems at a loss for everything. 

“Nicolò...Nico, habibi, no!”

That lost expression in Nicolò’s eyes instantly gives way to a flash of hurt and then to the dullness that he wears like his ugly armor. 

Yusuf brushes the garment back from his Frank’s head and shakes him softly. “Why won’t you ask for help?” 

“I did not want to inconvenience you." 

"By what? Making sure I have to pick you out of the dust every few weeks?" Yusuf quips and shakes his dumb Frank again. 

Instead of an answer, Nicolò drops his gaze and reaches for the cheich. Yusuf swats his hands away. 

"Let me!" he says and cuts off any further attempts to help. 

He ties a quick knot and places the short end of the veil over Nicolò’s head and gets to work. 

“The litham I am wearing is shorter and easier to tie,” he explains softly. “I’ll show you how tonight. But your skin is too light. When the sun is out, you need to protect both your face and your neck.” 

Yusuf moves slowly, deliberately lets Nicolò follow what he does. 

Nicolò barely breathes. He turns his head when Yusuf tells him to, bends it, when Yusuf tells him to, keeps his hands in fists at his sides as if he expects a knife between his ribs. If they hadn't slept next to each other through the whole winter, sharing a blanket and their heat where necessary, Yusuf might be insulted. But they did and he isn’t. Instead he is all too aware of Nicolò’s gaze on him, following his every move.

When he’s done, he catches the free hanging tail and raises it to cover Nicolò’s face. 

“You just tuck it into the folds like this if you need,” he explains, as he does.

Nicolò raises his fingers to where Yusuf’s still holds the veil in place, feeling his way over Yusuf's hand, a careful exploration of what he can't see. 

“You being my travelling companion does not inconvenience me,” Yusuf murmurs.

Nicolò blinks slowly.

They are close like this. Yusuf expects him to pull back, for the dullness to return to the stunning blue of his eyes. Instead, something seems to unclench in Nicolò’s shoulders, as he drops his hand, open and easy. 

"Thank you," he murmurs without specifying what he means.

Yusuf huffs a low laugh and tugs the veil down. It does nothing to alleviate the way the blue fabric highlights Nicolò’s eyes, but it reveals the faint smile on his lips. 

**5 - One of many revolutions, ca. 1850**

Yusuf’s tunic clings to his shoulders. In the sultry summer heat, the crowd's nervous tension thrums under his skin. He can taste their fear. They stand with the silence of the oppressed, of a people who hope to escape notice by not breathing. 

This is supposed to be a parade, but Yusuf has a hard time fitting in, unlike, to everybody’s surprise, Livre. 

Casting a glance over his shoulder, Yusuf finds him leaning against a wall in the back of the crowd. Sébastien’s sleepy eyes scan the people in front of him with the irrefutable knowledge of their guilt. He looks like a secret policeman if there ever was one. Whoever so much as looks at him, instantly seems to realize that he’s a criminal. 

Yusuf ducks his head, before his smile gives them away. This morning their young Frenchman had haggled with Nico for their last teabag. Livre doesn’t even drink tea, not when he can avoid it. For him, it’s all about the thrill, the excitement. The inevitable laughter when one of them loses. Like a cheat to allow himself to be happy, and let traces of the man shine through the grief. Big man, big laughter, bad sarcasm. Yusuf can’t wait to have him back. 

Movement at the corner of his eye tears him out of his thoughts. Yusuf spins before his conscious mind registered the featherlight touch at his lower back. His fingers grab a skinny wrist and he’s staring into a pair of wide hazel eyes under a shock of black hair. The boy is maybe thirteen, maybe a malnourished fifteen. Fear distorts his features as his lips soundlessly move around apologies, assurances that he very much did not find the weapon hidden under Yusuf’s tunic. The only people carrying weapons, real weapons, are the bad guys. Or those tasked with taking them out. But the kid can’t know that. 

Yusuf growls very softly, bending close enough to see the specks of green in those terrified eyes. “Listen, habibi, I’ll give you a five-second head start...run!” 

The moment he lets go, the boy scrambles backward. The crowd in front of him parts, eyes turning away, lest anybody might accuse these people of being involved. Yusuf ruthlessly squashes the resentment stirring in his heart. Saying they have a choice in the matter is the privilege of the armed and undying. Those without families that can be harmed. These people are fighting. They are surviving, and sometimes, that is the biggest act of rebellion. 

The boy races around a corner. Livre pushes away from the wall to follow him. 

To care is the privilege of those who can afford it. Yusuf breathes slowly and turns his head to the left. He can hear the noise rolling towards them like an announcement. 

Here they come.

***

„Did you find him?“ Yusuf asks, shoveling lukewarm vegetable stew into his mouth, to replenish the energy healing has taken. 

Le Livre hesitates in the doorway, his gaze quickly shifting past Andy before it lands on Yusuf. „Yeah.” He clears his throat. ”Revolutions are a shitty time to be a kid.“ 

“You would know,” Nico says gently. 

He steps up to Yusuf and brushes flakes of dried blood from his shoulders. They don’t have enough time or water to wash it all out of Yusuf's hair, no matter how disgusting it is.

As Yusuf looks up, he finds Nico’s too raw smile. The day has been taxing for all of them. But they came through. Some - Yusuf - just less intact than others. He winks and, like a charm, Nicolò smiles. “It will get better now for them, I think. What we did today will help.”

Andy scoffs. „Or make it worse. Who knows.” She tosses their meager belongings into backpacks with way more force than necessary, preparing to bolt as soon as the dark settles. ”I hate revolutions.“ 

Yusuf sees Livre‘s careful hope flounder and he wants to hit something, maybe even Andy. Livre is too young, his grief too fresh. He latches onto every lost boy they meet, his sarcasm barely able to cover up his need to save _someone_.

„It can‘t get much worse,” Yusuf interjects, with a dark glance in Andy’s direction. “Also,” he grins. ”I bet that kid eats tonight. Does he not?” Yusuf raises his soup bowl in a toast to Livre.

The young Frenchman casts a careful glance at Yusuf from under his sandy lashes and mirrors the grin. “Gotta take care of the younger generation. He’s good.” 

Nicky groans. “You didn’t help him because he was a thief, did you? Please tell me, you at least gave him real coins.”

The indignation in his voice makes Livre laugh. “Of course. Running around with counterfeits gets you killed. No, those I spread somewhere else.”

**+1 The Kitchen, present day**

Nile skips into the room with a grin on her lips that usually means trouble. She doesn’t wear it often enough, carrying her life as a warrior already with too much knowledge of the implications. Today is not one of those days. 

“Nicky? I read up on some stuff and … I mean, when you mix semolina and water, you get pasta, right?”

Nicky nods and casts a careful glance over his shoulder to Joe. Joe shrugs. 

Nile follows Nicky’s gaze and her grin widens. “Did you know that couscous is also semolina mixed with water? Like, it’s basically the same. Couscous is like tiny pasta.”

Nicky places the dishcloth on the counter and breathes a gentle smile onto his lips as he turns. He cocks his head. In the background, Joe stands from his comfortable sprawl in the armchair, grabs his notebook, and leaves the room.

As Nicky crosses his arms with a heavy sigh and Nile’s eyes widen in a parody of that encroaching feeling that she made a grave mistake.

"Nile... Habibti... Sorellina... You are a wonderful young woman, intelligent, clever. I deny not that you find great information on the internet, but let me put it this way: Absolutely not! Under no circumstances. Never. This is like equating a desert to glass because both consist of sand. Couscous has not just a different consistency than pasta, but also-"

"That doesn't make it bad!" yells Yusuf from the other room and Nicky takes a deep breath.

"Yes, thank you, _habibi_ ,” he bites back. “I am aware. That was not the point!"

**Author's Note:**

> "Hamdellah! " - Thank God!  
> "Yusuf, wa'eff!"- Yusuf, Stop!"
> 
> I lost the tunblr post with "Couscous is tiny pasta."  
> Whoever came up with that? I love you!!!!!!
> 
> Oh, yeah.. I keep forgetting it: come find me on [tumblr](https://kat2107.tumblr.com)


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